Jeanne-Marie
carried Madelon upstairs like a baby, took off her hat and
damp cloak, laid her on the bed, and then ran downstairs again
for a glass of cordial.
Madelon, however, was already reviving, and when Jeanne-Marie
went up to her again, she raised herself on the bed, resting
on one elbow, and fixed her large eyes upon the woman, first
with a look of blank unconsciousness, and then with a sudden
light of terror in them, as of some wild hunted thing just
caught by its pursuers.
"Don't take me back to the convent!" she cried in sharp,
piteous accents; "don't take me back; I can't go, I can't--no,
no, no!"
"No one shall take you back," said Jeanne-Marie, trying to
soothe her. But she paid no heed.
"Indeed I can't go. Ah, Madame, you said you knew papa; have
pity upon me! I promised him I would never be a nun. He died,
you know, and sent me to the convent at Liege to be with Aunt
Therese; but he made me promise before he died. I can't go
back--I should die too. Ah, Madame, have pity on me!"
She was kneeling on the bed now, her hands clasped with her
pitiful little imploring gesture.
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